Halloween, Excess, and No Joy in K-ville

Hello friends.  It has been sometime since my last update to the NJoSD.  Quick update...It was hot in TN and we managed with gin and swimming pools.  Sex was had in the yard, a new drug was discovered, and we watched a lot of meaningless futbol.  Midtown Knoxville was invented, parking was poor, and then the weather got cool.  We won some games and then lost some games, the Vols.  Now that we are up to date, let me begin to speculate on the winter.

The weather has chilled into a manageable sweater type atmosphere and Halloween is just a few days away.  The Gamecocks of South Carolina come to town this weekend for a night game at Neyland and all signs point to a Vol defeat.  I disagree with such nonsense.  The Beloved will step up on Saturday and come out of the General's house with a large, tow-digit win.  I look forward to seeing lots of friends and drinking like fiends throughout the day.  The one that the UTAD has done for the faithful is to make most of our games at night.  Such strategy is important as the fanbase will get hammered all day and the sting of losing is dulled by the warm embrace of booze. 

We are now Ole Miss.  We discuss the tailgate more than the game, our girls are way hotter than they were in the '90's, and we don't fight after we get beat.  Grtanted, this is a less stressful way to spend one's fall, but I would take stress over defeat all damn day.  Usually on the day of the bama game, I wake up at five with a terrible stomach ache and shaky hands.  This year I did not.  I wasn't nervous until tow hours before the game.  When I can sleep the night before the bama game I know that something is wrong in Knoxville. 

It will get better though, Vol fans.  We are half way through a decade of mediocrity.  Tennessee will win the SEC in no more than seven years and NC within eight.  Vols, Bitch.  Fuck a Gamecock.

Lack of Original Thought and some Dylan Worship

I really wish that I had even one original thought about anything important, but the fact of that matter is, I don’t.  I listen to too much Hank Williams, Bob Dylan and Neil Young.  I can’t play a horn, but if I could it wouldn’t matter.  I listen to Miles Davis and John Coltrane.  I read Hemingway, John MacDonald, David Sedaris, Hunter Thompson, PJ O’rourke and Dave Bry.  I don’t have an original idea in my whole gigantic head.  I occasionally think of something that sparks a something, but I am usually too lazy to get out of bed to write it down.  Shit, not even get out of bed.  Too lazy to roll over and sort through the drawer full of unopened condoms and one-hitters to reach for a pen and jot it down. 

I would like to think that my brand of laziness in original, but it isn’t.  Everything I do, from the time I wake up until the time I go to bed is, in some way, stolen from something.  I drink Scotch because “Arthur” is my favorite movie.  I wear black t-shirts because Hank Moody and Willie Nelson do.  I drink Plymouth gin because Travis McGee drinks Plymouth gin.

 Any remotely original, humorous, or even offensive thought I have, either goes unsaid or forgotten.  I once got called out on it in high school.  My friends and I used to play a game where we all get very high on the pot, and our friends that play guitar would play a Dylan-esque chord progression, and we go around the circle and make up our own Dylan lines.  I did well for a few rounds, then I changed a few words from an actual Dylan song.  I believe I mentioned a honky tonk lagoon.  It wasn’t until weeks later that my friend John, who is the only person that knows Dylan better that I in our group of friends, realized my transgression.  John used to drop his little sister off at middle school and then drive around the block and smoke a cigarette.  On this particular day, as he was having his smoke and listening to Bob, he heard the actual line from Blonde on Blonde.  I will never forget his ire as he stormed into the Universal Commons, lanky white finger wagging in my face.  “You Motherfucker.  Honky Tonk Lagoon.  You bastard!!!!.”  To this day, he still gives me shit about it.  But to my credit, and to his as well, no one would have ever picked up on my slight lyrical shuffle.  Except those of that used to drive around, by ourselves, smoking cigarettes, and listening to “Blonde on Blonde.” 

Incidentally, John and I both now agree that “Blood on the Tracks” is the superior Bob Dylan album.  And then there is  “Desire” or as we call it, the fiddle album.  Or the piano album, “New Morning.”  And of course the epic, Bob-stopped-smoking-until-he-heard-it-and-started-again-album, “ Nashville Skyline.” 

There are very few songs/albums that I remember when I first heard.  “Desire” was one of these albums.  I remember sitting in my dorm room in Crozet, VA, and my roommate palyed me “Hurricane” for the first time(I’m listening to it right now.)  I didn’t know the story and my roommate’s boom-box had a speaker out.  I remember later that day listening to as I walked to tennis practice, and I heard the fiddle part for the first time.  It didn’t leave my DiscMan for three weeks.

Of course, as I got older and more Dylanified, I got too coo for “Hurricane,” especially after the movie with Denzel Washington and some light research that revealed that Rueben Carter, did indeed, most likely, commit the crime that he was so “falsely” accused of. 

Bob Dylan was never one for politics, despite what his fans and critics have always spouted.  That is why it never bothered me that he may been wrong about Hurricane Carter.  Regardless if he did or not, Carter still got a raw deal from a racist legal system.  And I respect the fact that Bob spoke out against it. 

At the end of the day, I don’t care about Bob Dylan’s politics.  He has written some of the greatest American poetry/songs ever.  People go on and on about Jim Morrison.  He was a great rock star, but his poetry sucked.  That is someone else’s line, but it escapes me now.  Bob Dylan is more American than Uncle Sam eating apple pie while listening to Rosa Parks sing John Phillip Sousa songs through Betty Crocker’s ass.

But......at the end of the day, Townes Van Zandt is the greatest songwriter since Mozart.  And to quote Steve Earle, “Townes Van Zandt is the greatest songwriter in history, and I will stand on Bob Dylan’s coffee table in my cowboy boots and tell him so.”

I don’t think Bob would disagree.

The Beautiful Game, et cetera...

In recent news, I have become totally immersed in the world of international club football.  That's right.  Soccer.  I don’t how it happened but I am now hopelessly engrossed in the beautiful game.  I  actually know exactly how it happened.  I discovered an internet sports book and did OK in American College football.  Then the season ended and I decided to see what soccer betting was all about.  It looked easy and is often on TV in the middle of the day as part of some sports package from Comcast that apparently also includes college hockey and Asian tennis.  Who knew?
 
    The growth of my soccer passion has grown nearly as rapidly as Audrey II, and is nearly as insatiable.  I find myself watching highlights of the greats on YouTube.  Pele, Zidane, Maradona, and Reggie White  ( I am from TN afterall.)  I read online British news papers and watch Sky Sports News.  I’ve even learned how to say, “Phone Cards for the world.  Yes Yes Yes!!”  in Spanish.  I think.  They talk so fast.


    Watching soccer has reminded that all of us, humans, people have something in common.  Despite racial or political differences, it always seems that the people of the world can agree on 17 simple rules.  They can also disagree and bring guns.  No other seemingly simple game can instill such powerful ideas.  Peace or strife, goal or not.  Countries born and destroyed.  And the impetus is 90 minutes of men kicking a ball.  Back and forth.  Until..............

    Of course this doesn’t apply to we Gringos.  We have bigger bombs, wear helmets when we play football, and invented Rock-n-Roll.  So fuck off.  See y’all in Brazil’14.  Vamos Los Gringos!!! 

Reminencse, Horns, and the Triumphant of Right

Hello dear readers(all four of you.)  It has been some time since my last posting.  Allow me to give you a rundown of my last few months.  St. Patty's Day, March Madness, won some money on sports, lost more money on sports.  Didn't do any drugs to speak of, saw two nights of Panic in Asheville with the Spurgeons, then did some drugs to speak of.  Made out with a couple girls, fell in love with all of them, listened to a bunch of Willie, and discovered video games.  oh yeah, and there was Christmas and what not.

I wish I had a funny anecdote to share, but unfortunately I do not.  I could talk about the late nights, the self loathing and the weepy evenings alone with Hank.  But that would be depressing.  My life, it seems these days, is much like a drunken treadmill.  Always moving but never moving forward.  Or a spinning tire in mud.  Lots of smoke and rocking, but no progress.  For basically the last 15 years.  There was once a light at the end of the tunnel.  Then the light turned into a whore and fucked my best friend.  C'est la vie.  I've gotten over it, but it's even worse now.  I realized tonight, as a lovely women was straddling my pasty torso, that I am still not over this girl.  It's only been three years so, you know that's understandable. 

I have played Knight in Shining Armor for another feminine friend who has been getting her ass beat by some total douchebag.  He wants to kill me for calling him out on it.  Well, fuck you pal.  You can't hit girls.  I don't care about all of your fucking degrees, you 'roided out faggot.  That being said, this may be my last post, as he will kill me because he is a fucking lunatic. 

...if the law or gravity don't get me first.  Damn the torpedoes.  Full speed ahead!

PS
It's not all doom and gloom at Tomache. www.wwoz.org   Streaming radio station from New Orleans.  Think of it as WDVX with horns.  Listen to it NOW.

Godspeed,
HMC

Football Season Is Over...

...no more games... no more fun.

This line was part of Hunter S. Thompson's suicide note.  He killed himself on February 20, 2005.  I understand the sentiment as we move into yet another dreary 28 or 29 days of the worst month of the year.  More like Fuck-you-ary.  The weather is unbearably cold and gray, basketball and hockey dominate the sports world, and I am reminded of love lost by a birthday(not my own) and Valentine's Day.  The hopeful outlook of Spring is just around the corner, but it seems miles away with every half inch of shitty snow that falls in East Tennessee. 

So as I sit here by the fire, whiskey drink by my side, Neil Young on the box, I am reflective about a decadent Autumn and Winter.  The Mighty Orange finished strong on the gridiron, fun was had, and ridiculous amounts of  alcohol and various strange, illegal narcotics were consumed.  There wasn't much to write about on a weekly basis as I soon realized that all of my weekends were pretty much the same, and documenting them became tedious.  That, and my Mom started reading about them.  She is cool as they come, but writing about drug use and unprotected sex isn't exactly what she wants to hear from her first born.  Though I maintain that much of this is fictional and/or greatly exaggerated, I felt the need to tone it down a bit.  But no fear, dear reader, the fun never stops.

For these reasons I have decided to focus not on the present debauchery, but to take a look back.  I have done and seen some pretty funny and interesting shit over the years as I have traversed this fair planet, and it is time for these stories to be shared with the world.  Or at least to the 5 people who are aware of this site.

to be continued...

Songs for Right Now

All two of you who actually occasionally read this should know this list, but if on the off chance someone else does....Get these songs right now and listen to them.  They are decadent in no particular order except for the first.

Oh, Sweet Nuthin-The Velvet Underground
Midnight Train to Georgia-Gladys Knight & the Pips (if I could be a member of any band from history, it would be the Pips.  Seriously, even if the Stones were an option.  Pip.)
Hallelujah-Leonard Cohen(but Jeff Buckley's version is fantastic considering his fate.)
This Must Be the Place(Naive Melody)-The Talking Heads
Glad & Sorry-The Faces
Wish Someone Would Care- Irma Thomas
Everybody Needs Somebody to Love-Soloman Burke(RIP)
Spirit in the Sky-Norman Greenbaum
Tops-The Rolling Stones


Go and be decadent.

Oh yeah and "Two Weeks" by Grizzly Bear.  GO!

John Axford

  Decadence has been escaping me these last few weeks, or I should say that the decadence isn't fresh.  I've realized that trying to chronicle my exploits is a boring endeavour.  I do the same shit all the time. SO instead of yet another self absorbed account of booze, oak trees, football and blondes, I'm going to throw some real shit atcha.

I wrote this a few months ago and I feel now is the time to put it out there.

 Early September-Late o'Clock
"
    A great man is dying, and it sucks.  As I try to be funny about things that happen here, it’s hard because there is something happening here that isn’t at all funny.  My stepfather is dying.  And he didn’t do anything to deserve it.  I know that no one lives forever, but I just think that God should give some warning.  Not just let you have a great birthday dinner to celebrate 75, and then the next day, simply strike you down.  That is just not fair.  It’s not fucking fair.  Period. 

    Dear God,

THIS SHIT IS NOT FAIR.  NOT EVEN A LITTLE FUCKING FAIR, YOU-DAMMIT.
   
    -Chris

    But that is what happened to my stepfather, John Axford.  Football coach, hockey lover, captain of industry.  One day fine.  The next day, not. 

    It has been nearly 10 weeks since his first stroke and progress was fantastic.  Then three weeks ago, his body betrayed us again.  I have always heard that God tests us.  He tested Jesus and he tests us.  Well, you know what God, we’re not Jesus.  This shit is fucked up and it is not fair.  We’re not supposed to remember him like this.  The John we know is a smart ass who loves ice cream and the Braves.  Not the guy laying in that fucking hospital bed.  He hates that.  I hate that. All of those who love him hate that.
    John is the most positive man I have ever met.  While in his half sleep, half wake, status, when asked questions he always answers with a “Yeah,” even when he doesn’t feel like a Yeah.

“Hey John, you feeling good today?”

“Yah........pretty good.”

“How bout Michigan State?”

“Yah...  They looked good.”

    I don’t even know what Michigan State did last weekend, so I know that John doesn’t.  But that is the kind of guy he is.  He wants you to feel good about whatever it is that you’re talking about.  He wants the people around him to be happy.  No matter what. 
    Before I left the hospital tonight I asked,
 “John, you good?  You need anything?”

“Nah........I just want to get outta here.”  he said.

Me too, Paw.  I want us to get outta here too.        "



 It is now about five months later, and we're outta there. We are out of the hospital,  that is, which is something, but I don't think that I will ever sit in his living room and talk sports with him again.

Instead, John is at the State Veteran's Home, and is relatively better.  He won't get all the way better, but what used to be a dreaded trip to Karn's to feed him, literally feed him, has turned a bit.  I look forward to my few hours with him.  Granted, he is a different person, but the flashes of his old self make it great.  He knows us, he gets our jokes, and though his sense of time and space may be askew, for the first time in six months, I can see and hear John in there. 

Now when I go out there, I bring takeout food from somewhere, anywhere.  And though John still cannot walk or scratch the left side of his face, he can eat a cheeseburger and give me the Thursday night pick in football. 

"John, Georgia Tech plus 14 and a half against Virginia Tech.  What do you think?" I asked

As he took yet another bite of ice cream, he said, " That's a lot of points."  I took Georgia Tech and won.  And that is what I have always loved about my stepfather, John.  Lord knows I have never been an easy son to love, and not his blood at that.  However, he always treated me like one.  And even when I was being the shithead that I can often be, John and I could always talk sports.  I will never forget the time that I was standing with John at the New Balance tailgate roughly 45 minutes before kickoff of the Whoever U game.  I was maybe 25 at the time, and though John had been my stepfather for seven years or so, and most likely had grown tired of the antics of which my mother couldn't hate me for(because she is the second greatest woman to ever grace the face,) asked me, "Chris, can you're guy take a hundred dollar bet right now?"

It turned out that he couldn't, but that wasn't the point. That was the time when John Axford and I  became friends.  Not equals, not by a long shot, but tow guys that bet on football, and that one question spoke volumes. "Chris, I love your mother.  And I love your sister and I love you.  I don't have to, but I do, because that's what men do.  They love their family and you are family.  And though we will never discuss it or say it out loud,  talking about point spreads and football is how I will express it."  Of course this was never actually vocalized, but that is the way things are. 

Now John is much more vocal, and he definitely knows who and what is going on around him.  He isn't all there, but he is very long way from being all gone.  And that is the one thing in the whole world that gives me hope.